‘They know how sorry you are, and that you wrote to tell all,’ said Amabel. ‘They forgive, indeed they do; but they cannot bear to speak about it just yet.’
‘If you forgive, Amy,’ said he, in a husky voice, ‘I may hope for pardon from any.’
‘Hush! don’t say that. You have been so kind, all this time, and we have felt together so much, that no one could help forgetting anything that went before. Then you will write to me; and will you tell me how to direct to you?’
‘You will write to me?’ cried Philip, brightening for a moment with glad surprise. ‘Oh, Amy, you will quite overpower me with your goodness!—The coals of fire,’ he finished, sinking his voice, and again pressing his hand to his brow.
‘You must not speak so, Philip,’ then looking at him, ‘Is your head aching?’
‘Not so much aching as—’ he paused, and exclaimed, as if carried away in spite of himself, ‘almost bursting with the thoughts of—of you, Amy,—of him whom I knew too late,—wilfully misunderstood, envied, persecuted; who,—oh! Amy, Amy, if you could guess at the anguish of but one of my thoughts, you would know what the first murderer meant when he said, “My punishment is greater than I can bear.”’
‘I can’t say don’t think,’ said Amy, in her sweet, calm tone; ‘for I have seen how happy repentance made him, but I know it must be dreadful. I suppose the worse it is at the time, the better it must be afterwards. And I am sure this Prayer-book’—she had her hand on it all the time, as if it was a pleasure to her to touch it again—‘must be a comfort to you. Did you not see that he made me give it to you to use that day, when, if ever, there was pardon and peace—’
‘I remember,’ said Philip, in a low, grave, heartfelt tone; and as she took the pen, and was writing his name below the old inscription, he added, ‘And the date, Amy, and—yes,’ as he saw her write ‘From G. M.’—‘but put from A. F. M. too. Thank you! One thing more;’ he hesitated, and spoke very low, ‘You must write in it what you said when you came to fetch me that day,—“A broken”’—
As she finished writing, Mrs. Edmonstone came in. ‘My Amy, all is ready. We must go. Good-bye, Philip,’ said she, in the tone of one so eager for departure as to fancy farewells would hasten it. However, she was not more eager than Mr. Edmonstone, who rushed in to hurry them on, shaking hands cordially with Philip, and telling him to make haste and recover his good looks. Amabel held out her hand. She would fain have said something cheering, but the power failed her. A deep colour came into her cheeks; she drew her thick black veil over her face, and turned away.
Philip came down-stairs with them, saw her enter the carriage followed by her mother, Mr. Edmonstone outside. He remembered the gay smile with which he last saw her seated in that carriage, and the active figure that had sprung after her; he thought of the kind bright eyes that had pleaded with him for the last time, and recollected the suspicions and the pride with which he had plumed himself on his rejection, and thrown away the last chance.